She cooked.
She drove us places.
She signed school forms.
She answered questions.
But it was as if someone had lowered the volume inside her.
Every night the three of us sat at the dinner table surrounded by things nobody wanted to say.
One night I finally snapped.
I remember putting my fork down and telling Mom, “We don’t have to pretend we’re okay just because Ethan is here.”
Mom looked at me.
I immediately regretted it.
Then I said, “We can miss Dad and still talk about him.”
That night Mom cried at the table for almost an hour.
So did I.
Ethan mostly listened.
I assumed he’d forgotten.
He hadn’t.
Ethan held up the wooden lantern.
“Claire made Mom talk about Dad.”
I looked toward Mom.
She was already crying.
Ethan continued.
“She said being sad doesn’t mean turning everybody off.”
I couldn’t remember saying those exact words.
